Game's Afoot
by RoslinSharp
Summary: ONESHOT Moriarty's back and this time she has plans for both Joan and Sherlock.


Game's Afoot

_ She's the queen in her castle, she's a spider on the wall. _

The majority of the criminal underworld prefers to deny Moriarty's existence. The few who do know of her speculate that she is a facade, a conglomerate of people acting as one being. Others say Moriarty is in fact an inherited title, passed from master to apprentice, generation after generation.

Even those who have dealt and worked with Moriarty remain clueless as to her real identity. Some of her minions say she's really a powerful businesswoman using her criminal dealings to elevate her already considerable financial standing. Others whisper that's she's an escaped convict out for revenge against the world who put her behind bars. A scant few say she's a poor, orphan girl who built her criminal empire from scratch.

All and none of them are right. Only one person knows the truth.

_In a dark hospital, Sebastian Moran's vitals beep erratically and he breathes his last breath. **Another game has begun.**_

…

Joan Watson didn't walk so much as hurl herself into the brownstone, slamming the door behind her.

"Sherlock! What the hell is going on?"

Sherlock was seated in front of the fireplace, his back turned to her.

"Ah, so you've heard, Watson. My nemesis has been released from jail due to some ghastly legal technicality. I imagine she's already on her way back to London to pick up what remains of her criminal empire."

"Uh huh, that's not all Captain Gregson told me. Would you mind explaining why you ran a background check on me?"

Watson shifted positions so she was standing in front of Sherlock and tossed the paper Gregson had given her in Holmes' lap.

Sherlock stared at the paper and back at Watson in bemusement.

"Ah yes, if it's any consolation, I ran similar checks at Scotland Yard and several other places. Given that the last woman I fell for was my nemesis in disguise, I didn't care to take my chances."

Joan glowered down at her British housemate, a stark contrast to her normally calm composure.

"So, in essence you're telling me, that after all these months we've spent working together that you still don't trust me. And what do you mean by 'the last woman you fell for'?"

Sherlock rose from his chair and, in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, reached for Joan's hand.

"My dear Watson, I had hoped to wait awhile longer before announcing my intentions, but it seems I cannot delay this futher. You see, I recently came to an epiphany of sorts. Until the so-called Irene Adler came along, I had been content in my solitary existence. After her faked death, I once again returned to my former habits. Yet now, I realize that I am no longer alone. For now, you see, I have you and I realize that there is no other person in the universe that I care for more. In fact, we already exhibit the same traits of a romantic couple, so why not make it official? All we have left to do is have sex, which I can assure you will be exemplary."

Joan stared at him at absolute befuddlement.

"Have you completely lost you mind?"

"Why no, on the contrary, my thoughts have never been clearer," Sherlock replied smugly. "You are the only woman for me, Watson. The only one I will ever need."

Joan sighed and pulled up a chair next to Sherlock's.

"I've obviously underestimated the amount of traumatic shock Moriarty put you through. I've had similar experiences with some of my sober clients. I know what she did to you was horrible, Sherlock, but latching on to me is not a suitable alternative. Let me take you to a therapist, I know an excellent one. We can talk this out with her together."

"And now I find myself questioning your sanity if you think I will willingly discuss my personal matters with a therapist. Did I fail to mention, this is not a spur of the moment decision, but the result of months of thoughtful rationale? In fact, I'm surprised that it has never occurred to me before. You're a very attractive woman, Watson. If we had met under different circumstances, I would have most certainly proposed a sexual liaison. I've often found myself studying your legs and the way they move under-"

Joan lept to her feet.

"Stop Sherlock, just stop! I don't know what you're thinking, but love and relationships don't work like this! I-I have a dinner date with my friend, Emily. We'll talk about this when I get home."

Joan grabbed her purse and was out the door before Sherlock could get another word in.

…

Joan's day didn't get any better from there. Instead of Emily, she found Irene Adler/Moriarty waiting for her. The blonde looked poised and relaxed. Only the faint impression of a prison bracelet on the other woman's left wrist remained as proof of her incarceration.

"Hello Joan, it's good to see you again. I'm afraid you've already texted your friend that you couldn't make it. It's just the two of us tonight."

Joan frantically searched around the cafe, looking for an escape route.

"My dear Watson, you have nothing to fear," Moriarty cooed. "I would no sooner harm you than I would Sherlock. I thought he was one of a kind, but you have shown yourself to be even more precious."

"What do you want with me," Joan said through clenched teeth.

"As a matter of fact, I require your services, yours and Sherlock's."

….

As expected, Sherlock threw a fit the minute Joan brought Moriarty through the door.

"What could you possibly be thinking Watson? How dare you bring her into this house!"

It was Moriarty who broke the ice. She hung her coat up at the door as if she owned the place and approached Sherlock with a smile.

"Sherlock, I realize you and I have had our differences in the past, to say the least, but a situation has arisen that goes beyond you and I. I'm sure you're aware of New York City's meteoric rise in crime."

Sherlock threw his hands up in consternation. "Of course I am. I had hoped for a quieter existence tending my bees with you out of the picture. Imagine my surprise when the city descended into near anarchy. Everywhere you look there are robbings, beatings, homicides, even an arson or two. And I take it you're here to tell me this is all your doing?"

"In a way, yes."

Joan decided it was her turn to chime in. "Moriarty believes these crimes are all being orchestrated by one person. Someone who's taken over her organization while she was in jail."

"Splendid! And I suppose you expect me to find whoever is behind this madness so you can go back to your role as queen bee of the criminal world."

"Actually, I need both of you to find this person. Look at it this way, Sherlock. New York is not the only place that's been infested with this chaos."

Moriarty walked over to the kitchen and deposited her briefcase on the table. She pulled out several photographs and laid them out on the table.

"Sebastian Moran was a hired assassin disguised as a serial killer. He only murdered one person at a time. There's a new killer lose in London who butchers entire families."

Lifeless eyes stared back at Joan from Moriarty's photographs. A trio of small children lay in a pool of their own blood. Even Joan, with her years of medical training and months of working with Sherlock had to look away, sickened.

Moriarty tucked the photographs back in her briefcase and pulled out another set of an abandoned street seemingly covered in British currency.

"The aftermath of the robbery of the Great Central Bank of London. The burglars were obviously more interested in the theft itself than any potential reward. They escaped with the back door of their van open."

Moriarty closed her briefcase and shoved it to the side.

"I know what you both think of me, but there has always been a bit of style and elegance to my madness. I never killed at random, I took only jobs which I found beneficial to my interests. This sociopath on the loose has no plan, no agenda, he or she simply wants to watch the world burn."

Sherlock leaned forward so he and Moriarty were almost nose to nose. "How do I know that this isn't your doing to start with."

Moriarty smiled and leaned back in her chair. "Watson believes me. Check the prison records. I had no visitors, no phone, no contact with the outside world when the crimes began. Face the facts, Sherlock, I'm the lesser of two evils."

Sherlock stared at Moriarty thoughtfully. "If you don't mind, Watson and I need to discuss this matter in private."

Moriarty crossed her legs lazily. "Take all the time you want, I'll be waiting."

…..

Sherlock laid his head back against the door of Watson's bedroom. "This is madness, Watson."

"I thought that's what we did, Sherlock."

"She could be playing us as we speak, Joan."

Joan got up from the bed and laid a comforting hand on her colleague's shoulder. At least he was far too distressed for any clumsy attempts at seduction.

"She'll be in our sight the entire time and this time, we know what to look for. I've beaten her once before, I can do it again."

"Have I not warned you of the dangers of imperiousness, my dear Watson? Still, we can't afford to miss this chance. I'll make sure our surveillance cameras are on. Anything to get to the bottom of this madness."

…

"First thing's first, Moriarty," Sherlock said upon returning to the kitchen, "you will occupy this house until we get to the bottom of this investigation. Secondly," he roughly grabbed the phone from her hand and threw it against the wall, "no cellphone usage."

"Irene please," she replied cooly. "Moriarty is an alias I use for business purposes."

"But neither of them are your real name," Joan interjected.

"My dear Watson, our names are whatever we choose them to be and I have happily laid claim to several dozen of them."

….

"We'll be returning to our killer/robber/madman's first crime, that's where he or she were at their sloppiest, just learning to test the bounds of their skill. Which brings us to the burning of the Plaza Theater in Brooklyn, one week after Irene's incarceration. Of course, the arson has already been pinned on one of the kitchen workers, who swears he's innocent."

"Excellent idea Sherlock," Irene said cheerily, "why don't you go and investigate the crime scene while Joan and I stay and go through the rest of these files."

"Why Irene, I believe you're more than capable of going through these reports on your own. Watson is coming with me."

"Actually, Watson does have a surprising talent for picking out details that both of us overlook, darling."

"A talent that lies second only to her fieldwork, which..."

Joan slammed the book she was reading against the desk, bringing both of the deductionists to attention.

"Stop it, both of you. I won't have you fighting over me like a couple of spoiled kindergartners. We'll all go to the burned down theater. Then we'll all come home and go through the rest of these files."

….

"Does he always throw temper tantrums when a case doesn't go his way?" Irene asked.

In the distance Sherlock kicked at a piece of burned rubble and then slammed his fist against what was left of the theater wall.

"Not always, but every now and then he goes into one of these little fits."

Irene took another drag on her cigarette, releasing a puff of smoke into the chilly autumn air. She reminded Joan of one of the femme fatale villainesses from those fifties movies Oren had been obsessed with as a teen.

"He's in love with you, Joan. He tried to hide his proposal behind reason and logic, but the truth is that he's crazy about you. Sherlock Holmes may not be a normal man, but his feelings for you are really very ordinary."

Joan resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the other woman. "Let me guess, he told you about it in bed last night. I thought I heard the bed springs creaking."

Irene smiled and linked her arm in Watson's. "Right again, Ms. Watson. Have I mentioned what a brilliant detective you are in your own right? I've been thinking, you'd be perfect as one of my lieutenants. Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant man, but this little arrangement between you two can't last forever."

"Hell will freeze over the day I come to work for you, Irene."

The two women laughed and walked back towards the car.

…..

**Two Weeks Later**

** "**It's size 9, not 11, Sherlock, and yes, it's still the suspect's shoe size."

Sherlock crumpled the report into a paper ball and tossed it into the trash can. "We've been through every crime that's taken place in the city over the last seven months and all we've found are innocent suspects and dead ends. At this rate, we may have to go to London and see what Lestrade has to offer for us. Irene and I two of the greatest minds the world has ever seen and we haven't made the tiniest bit of progress."

"The problem," Joan said, "is that we're just getting the same opinion twice."

"Except that my mind is slightly superior to his," Irene interjected smugly.

Joan chose to ignore her. "Look, why don't we all just take a break from this. I know this great Thai place that opened down the road. Why don't we just sit down there, have some dinner, and come back to this later?"

….

Joan opened her eyes and quickly closed them against the glare of the midday sun. It couldn't be any later than midmorning, yet she felt tired and sore. She remembered going out to eat with Irene and Sherlock. Irene had flirted with both of them and then they had gone back to the brownstone...

Joan Watson opened her eyes and sat up with a start. She was in Sherlock's enormous bed with Irene laying on the far side. There was a slightly damp space in the middle where Sherlock had obviously slept.

Irene rolled over so she was lying next to Joan.

"Good morning, lover. I was wondering when you were going to wake from your beauty sleep." She ran her fingers over Joan's nipples teasingly and placed a gentle kiss on her navel. "Sherlock will be up in a minute with breakfast."

Joan lay back against the pillows, as memories of the night before flooded back at her.

She could practically taste the feeling of Irene's tongue on her clit, the look of pure ecstacy on Sherlock's face when Joan had mounted him. The three of them had gone back and forth all night before they finally succumbed to exhaustion. It had been... incredible.

"There you are ladies." As promised Sherlock entered the room with two breakfast trays. "Ah, Watson's finally awake."

Irene smiled and eagerly gobbled at her eggs and toast.

"I have exciting news for both of you, I may have finally made a breakthrough in our case."

"Let me guess," said Irene, "neurochemicals."

Sherlock beamed. "An extra dosage of them, in fact."

Joan rolled her eyes at Holmes' misogyny and lifted herself out of bed.

"What, are you not hungry Watson?" Joan didn't bother to respond. She grabbed Sherlock's robe and headed for the shower.

….

"Until now, I've been operating under the assumption that the theater was the first violent act on the part of our mystery mastermind. As a matter of fact, it wasn't. The murder of Sebastian Moran was on the top on our deviant's list."

Joan turned around to look at Irene. "Are you saying that she's-"

"No, not at all. Irene may have sent the text message that led Mr. Moran to bang his head against the wall repeatedly, but he managed to survive for another three weeks. Then, he quietly passed away in the middle of the night... or so it would seem. Watson, I see you've had time to look at the autopsy report."

"Yes, this wasn't natural causes, someone sabotaged Moran's life support system. And... there's something else." Joan pulled out two pictures, neatly pinning them to Sherlock's bulletin board. "When Sebastian Moran was first admitted to the hospital, his eyeballs were so irreparably damaged that the nurses couldn't even close his eyes. Yet, when he was brought into the morgue, someone had managed to pull his eyelids closed. Probably with a pair of tweezers."

Irene leaned in closer, studying the photographs with an air of detached interest.

"Someone who loved him did this," Sherlock said softly. "Someone who couldn't bear to see him buried with such a look of agony."

Sherlock turned to Irene. "In that message you tricked me into showing Moran, you gave him an ultimatum, his sister or himself. She's the only one who could have done this, she's the key!"

"Irene," Joan said cooly, "we need her name and her location, pronto."

"Of course, her name is Catherine Winslow, but we called her Carrie. She managed accounting at my office in Manchester. Of course, neither of the siblings knew the other was working for me."

"You-you how could you? You practically pitted the two of them against each other, Irene!" Watson's face had gone red with rage.

Irene remained the picture of calm. "My dear Watson, of course I did. Would you really expect any less of me?"

Joan threw up her hands in defeat. "No, you're right, Irene. I just need to take a break. You two can take it from here."

….

Sherlock found Joan on the balcony, studying the bees that had been named in her honor. He plopped down on the bench next to her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It doesn't take a detective to see that you're upset Watson. Care to enlighten me on the cause of your distress."

"Don't you find it a little odd, Sherlock? Irene has managed to seamlessly insert herself into our lives over the course of two weeks. She's a sociopath and yet we've been treating like she's our best friend."

"I'm quite surprised, Watson. Up until this morning you seemed quite taken with Ms. Adler. I was actually a bit jealous."

"I know Sherlock, I know. Something's just not right. Irene's been your blind spot before. Has it ever occurred to you that she might be trying to distract you from your true objective."

"I'll admit my detective skills have been a bit...inept as of late," Sherlock said softly, "but she's not the only distraction I'm dealing with."

Joan stood up from the bench and stretched. "I'm going out to get groceries. I assume you've already got Gregson's team on the lookout for Catherine Winslow."

"And Scotland Yard as well. I am highly optimistic that this will be all over soon and Irene will be on her way."

Watson could only hope.

…

"Sherlock? Irene? I'm home." Watson moved her grocery bag to one hip and fiddled with the light switch. The house remained seethed in darkness. "Sherlock, please don't tell me you forgot to pay the electric bill again."

"Sherlock's not here anymore." A figure emerged from the kitchen doorway, knife in hand. "Sherlock killed my brother, he had to pay. Now it's your turn, Miss Watson."

Joan Watson tried to pull every self-defense technique Holmes had taught, or rather tried to teach her, out of her adrenaline-soaked brain. In the end, though, she gave in to her first instinct and threw the grocery bag at her attacker, giving herself enough time to run towards the staircase.

...Only to trip over a body at the top of the stairs.

"Sherlock, oh my god!" She didn't need to light to see that Sherlock was bleeding everywhere.

"I'm fine Watson," he gasped. "Just a... just a flesh wound... took me by surprise. Keep running Watson, don't... don't let her get you, too."

She could hear Carrie's footsteps creaking up the staircase. She was running out of time. Cautiously, Watson made her way towards the entrance to the roof. Maybe she could barricade herself up there until...

"Too late, Ms. Watson." Carrie grabbed Joan from behind and held the knife to her throat.

Joan struggled uselessly under the other woman's grip. "Carrie, please, listen to me. Sherlock and I didn't kill your brother. It was Moriarty who sent the message."

"That's not what she says," Carrie replied in a singsong tone.

"She? Who?"

A shot rang out from the other side of the hallway and Joan's assailant fell to the ground. The knife followed, missing Watson's throat by a bare centimeter.

A light shone in Joan's face.

"Irene," she whispered. "Where were you?"

"Never mind where I was, Joan. I'm here now and you've got Catherine's blood splattered all over you."

"Sherlock, we need to get him to the hospital."

Irene ran a hand through Joan's hair and pulled her close. "No worries, my dear Watson. I've already dialed 911. Sherlock will be fine, Catherine managed to miss all of his vital organs."

"In the meantime," Irene pulled Joan out of their embrace, "I have to go. The case is closed and I do have a business to run." She cupped Joan's face in her hands and kissed her gently. "Look after him for me, will you? Look after yourself, I couldn't bear the thought of any harm coming to either of you."

Irene made her way towards the stairs, only to turn back and gaze at Joan longingly. "Meredith," she said. "Meredith Brown. That's my real name. Not that it will get you anywhere. According to the records, I died in a fire with my parents when I was ten."

…..

"Catherine Winslow was a paranoid schizophrenic," Holmes said from his hospital bed. "There's no way she could have perpetrated these crimes. You were right about the "distractions", it was Irene all along." Sherlock tried to sit up, only to fall back, wincing in pain. "Bloody hell, Watson! How could I have let her fool me like this again?"

"She fooled both of us, Sherlock. At least the crime wave is over for now."

"Until she rises again, stronger than ever!"

Joan scooted her chair over, and leaned over Sherlock's bedside, taking his hand in hers. "Only this time we'll be ready."

"Listen Watson, about what I said before, the day Irene appeared. My proposal was absolutely monstrous and... I'm sorry."

Joan smiled and gently squeezed his hand. "Apology accepted."

"Watson, I don't suppose you'd consider giving this another try."

"I don't know Sherlock, we'll just have to see where the road takes us."

Sherlock smiled and brought her hands to his lips.


End file.
